Welcome to Hyperion Records, an independent British classical label devoted to presenting high-quality recordings of music of all styles and from all periods from the twelfth century to the twenty-first.

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'Most of these songs from medieval France explore the infinite emotional complexities of hopeless love. Soprano Faye Newton characterises their wide-r ...'This is among the best recordings of this repertoire … I will always enjoy being challenged to listen to these works in such fresh and sensitive ...» More

When the fresh grass and the foliage appear and the flowers break out on the bough, the nightingale raises his voice and begins his song, high and clear; I am joyful because of him, and I am joyful because of the flowers, and because of myself, and more so because of my lady. I am encircled and surrounded by happiness on all sides, but this is the joy that conquers all others.

I love my lady so much, and hold her so dear, and so much fear her and serve her, that I never dare speak to her about me, nor do I ask anything of her, nor send her anything. But she knows of my pain and grief, and when it pleases her, she treats me well and honours me, and when it pleases her, I am content with less so that she doesn’t need to use reproaches.

I marvel at how I can endure without revealing to her my desire. When I see and look at my lady, her beautiful eyes are so lovely [that] I almost run towards her. I would do this if it weren’t for fear, for I never saw a body better formed and proportioned that was so reluctant and slow to the demands of love.

Alas! How I die of sorrow. I think about her so deeply that thieves could carry me off and I wouldn’t know anything about it. By God, Love! You find me defenceless: without friends and without another master. Why don’t you, just for once, exert influence over my lady, before I am consumed utterly by desire?

I would like to find her alone, sleeping, or pretending to sleep, so that I could steal a sweet kiss from her, for I am not worth enough to request it of her. By God, Lady, how little we are taking advantage of love! Time is passing and we are missing the best bit! We would have to speak with covert signals, and since we lack boldness, may our astuteness make up for it.

Messenger, go, and don’t think less of me if I am afraid to go to my lady.

When the fresh grass and the foliage appear and the flowers break out on the bough, the nightingale raises his voice and begins his song, high and clear; I am joyful because of him, and I am joyful because of the flowers, and because of myself, and more so because of my lady. I am encircled and surrounded by happiness on all sides, but this is the joy that conquers all others.

I love my lady so much, and hold her so dear, and so much fear her and serve her, that I never dare speak to her about me, nor do I ask anything of her, nor send her anything. But she knows of my pain and grief, and when it pleases her, she treats me well and honours me, and when it pleases her, I am content with less so that she doesn’t need to use reproaches.

I marvel at how I can endure without revealing to her my desire. When I see and look at my lady, her beautiful eyes are so lovely [that] I almost run towards her. I would do this if it weren’t for fear, for I never saw a body better formed and proportioned that was so reluctant and slow to the demands of love.

Alas! How I die of sorrow. I think about her so deeply that thieves could carry me off and I wouldn’t know anything about it. By God, Love! You find me defenceless: without friends and without another master. Why don’t you, just for once, exert influence over my lady, before I am consumed utterly by desire?

I would like to find her alone, sleeping, or pretending to sleep, so that I could steal a sweet kiss from her, for I am not worth enough to request it of her. By God, Lady, how little we are taking advantage of love! Time is passing and we are missing the best bit! We would have to speak with covert signals, and since we lack boldness, may our astuteness make up for it.

Messenger, go, and don’t think less of me if I am afraid to go to my lady.

When the fresh grass and the foliage appear and the flowers break out on the bough, the nightingale raises his voice and begins his song, high and clear; I am joyful because of him, and I am joyful because of the flowers, and because of myself, and more so because of my lady. I am encircled and surrounded by happiness on all sides, but this is the joy that conquers all others.

I love my lady so much, and hold her so dear, and so much fear her and serve her, that I never dare speak to her about me, nor do I ask anything of her, nor send her anything. But she knows of my pain and grief, and when it pleases her, she treats me well and honours me, and when it pleases her, I am content with less so that she doesn’t need to use reproaches.

I marvel at how I can endure without revealing to her my desire. When I see and look at my lady, her beautiful eyes are so lovely [that] I almost run towards her. I would do this if it weren’t for fear, for I never saw a body better formed and proportioned that was so reluctant and slow to the demands of love.

Alas! How I die of sorrow. I think about her so deeply that thieves could carry me off and I wouldn’t know anything about it. By God, Love! You find me defenceless: without friends and without another master. Why don’t you, just for once, exert influence over my lady, before I am consumed utterly by desire?

I would like to find her alone, sleeping, or pretending to sleep, so that I could steal a sweet kiss from her, for I am not worth enough to request it of her. By God, Lady, how little we are taking advantage of love! Time is passing and we are missing the best bit! We would have to speak with covert signals, and since we lack boldness, may our astuteness make up for it.

Messenger, go, and don’t think less of me if I am afraid to go to my lady.